


The Adventure Of The Scarred Scion (1881)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [32]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Caring Castiel, Destiel - Freeform, Framing Story, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes, Wales, Yeggmen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-13
Updated: 2017-04-13
Packaged: 2018-10-18 10:03:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10614630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: A man from a rich and famous family seems strangely out of place in a remote Welsh valley, in this (literally) hair-raising case.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Mentioned elsewhere as 'the case of Vanderbilt and the Yeggman'.

The reason that this rather quirky little adventure was not published in the original (1921) "Elementary" was one of the most common such behind so many 'missing cases', namely that the innocent character involved had every right to live out their lives in privacy, something that Holmes helped him to achieve. Now that he has passed on to a better place, his story can finally be told – and it proves that money truly cannot always buy happiness. 

Although in my own experience, it can buy a remission from the attentions of one's bank manager. And indeed, that is where my story begins.

+~+~+

In our later years together, one of the things that I knew upset my friend was my low (but accurate) opinion of my own skills in many areas, particularly those of his own detective work. Then again, I did miss something so obvious at this time that, looking back, even I should have felt a frisson of shame for not spotting what our friend Henriksen (London's best baking-day detector) called 'the bleedin' obvious'.

My work at the surgery was, at most times, enough for me to more or less meet my outgoings, but over the past few months that work had dried up a little. The opening of a rival surgery rather too near my own had meant that the number of patients I was taking, as well as my few fixed days there, had decreased considerably, taking my income down with it. I had increasingly fretted over my bank statements – until out of the blue, salvation arrived in the form of one Mr. Mark Cairney, a clerk who had been fired from his position at the bank where my account was held. What made this so fortuitous for me – or so I had thought – was that he had managed all the 'professional' accounts in the city, and the bank knew that he had defrauded several of his clients but not all the details as of yet. Rather than face some horrendous publicity whilst they worked out who had been swindled and by how much, they announced that they were depositing a sum of twenty-five pounds sterling into each of the renegade clerk's accounts, and would then increase this for anyone worse affected once they had finished a full investigation. Undoubtedly the best part – from my personal point of view – was that for those who might turn out to be unaffected (and I doubted my own situation could have been much worse), they would get to keep the money. It was, quite literally, a godsend.

Before anyone asks, yes, I was that gullible in those far-off days. Gullible, and blest with the best friend in the whole wide world!

+~+~+

One of the criticisms sometimes levied at my clever friend was that he was disinclined to go beyond the front door unless necessary, let alone leave his beloved London. This was palpably unfair; Holmes' brilliant brain was more than capable of solving crimes without rushing hither and yon; indeed, it seemed an unwelcome facet of modern policing that, as the recent Spencer John case had most definitely proved, they appeared to think being _seen_ to do things was more important than actually doing things. Holmes believed in making the best use of the gifts given him by the Good Lord, which meant efficient use of his talents and not wasting time running about pointlessly. Which was most probably why I was caught so off-guard by his question at the breakfast table that morning.

“How do you feel about Montgomeryshire?”

I looked at him in surprise.

“That is one of the Marcher counties”, I answered. “Towards the north, opposite Shropshire. I have never been there, but I have read that the countryside is very beautiful.”

“Father writes that a friend of his is encountering problems there”, he said, “which he thinks that we may be able to help with.”

It was probably foolish of me to feel a warm glow at a silly pronoun plural form, but I did so anyway.

“What sort of problems?” I asked.

“He does not say”, Holmes said, frowning at the letter as if it had displeased him. “But the name is certainly one of note. The man requesting our help is a Mr. Enoch Vanderbilt.”

“Like the American millionaires?” I asked, surprised. Although I supposed that, on reflection, I might have expected someone like Holmes' father to know that illustrious family.

“A cousin, who has someone found his way to the far end of a remote Welsh valley”, Holmes said thoughtfully. “An odd place for someone with wealthy connections, although they do say that wealth and eccentricity are bedfellows for some. And it may be that the money did not reach as far as his branch of the family tree. I wonder if said money might be a reason for his calling us in?”

+~+~+

Reaching somewhere as remote as the small village of Llangynog was no easy task, even if this was the Age of Railways. We took an early morning London & North Western Railways train as far as Crewe Junction, where we changed to the Cambrian Railways and a train that looked rather rickety but succeeded in getting us as far as our final stop, the station in the small village of Llynclys. From here we still faced a fifteen-mile coach trip to our destination, the Tanat Valley Railway would not come to pass for a further twenty-three years.

I have to say that it was quite pleasant being away from London, even if Holmes' hair looked as if we had been through a tornado or two en route. I wondered how he felt about being absent from the city that was his home, and wished that we had longer out here. It was a Saturday, and I had my fixed surgery day on Wednesday this week, which meant that I would have to head home on Tuesday, whether the case – if there was one – was resolved or not. The thought depressed me.

We finally made it to Llangynog, which turned out to be a most charming village. St. Cynog's church, snug behind its protective wall, had one of those squat little bell-towers that I quite liked, architecturally. The people we passed seemed friendly enough; I had read in the “Times” that some in Wales had the same sort of dislike towards the English that certain more backward parts of Scotland and Ireland exhibited, but there was none of that here.

Or so I first thought.

I did not know what I had been expecting for the house of the cousin of such a famous family as the Vanderbilts, but Basilica House, set in its own little nook a little way west of the village, was most definitely not it. It was a fair-sized cottage, I supposed, but it was barely any wider than our house at Cramer Street. A Vanderbilt lived here?

A dour-looking butler opened the door to us, and gave us the sort of look that I was fast becoming used to. More than one lady had tried to offer me money 'for helping the indigent poor', so bedraggled did Holmes usually look when we were out together. And we had already had a frankly incredulous look from one railway conductor who, I noted, examined our first-class tickets very thoroughly. 

The man bade us enter, and installed us in what must have been one of the smallest waiting-rooms ever; our knees actually touched as we sat opposite each other. Fortunately there was only a short wait before we were summoned to the presence of Mr. Enoch Vanderbilt.

Although is is probably wrong of me to say it, the thing that struck me most forcible about our client's appearance was the huge birthmark that covered most of his face. Society had progressed some way towards accepting such things by this time, but I began to have my first inklings as to why someone with his famous connections lived in such a remote area. He bade us welcome and waited until the butler had brought us drinks – coffee for Holmes, mercifully – and departed.

“Thank you for coming”, he said, and I detected a faint American accent along with the Welsh one. “I believe, Mr. Holmes, that from what I read about your adventure in Oxford, you require all the facts, much as your doctor and scribe here does when diagnosing a patient, and I have much to tell you.”

“Please proceed”, Holmes said politely, looking a little mournfully at the now-empty coffee-cup. Our host smiled, and within minutes a second cup had arrived. I suppressed a smile at the happy noise that came from my re-caffeinated friend.

“To begin with”, our host said, “I should answer your obvious question as to why I live out here, far from so-called 'civilization' and further still from my rich relations. As I am sure you know, the family fortune was founded by the late Mr. Cornelius Vanderbilt, who died some four years ago. My father Jacob was his first cousin. Unfortunately there was a falling-out when Father married my mother, who was what they call 'a half-caste' from the Cape Colony. I think that William – now the current family head – would have preferred a complete break, but Cornelius, for all that he disapproved of the match, was unmovable when it came to familial obligations.”

“Matters were further complicated when my mother fell pregnant and then died giving birth to me. As you can see, I bear the severe facial disfigurement which, as I am sure you will understand, made it desirous that I not be seen out in what is laughably called 'polite society'. I suppose that in one way it made the break easier; Cornelius was prepared to pay Father to go a long way away so that he did not 'disgrace' the family name.”

I frowned. People could not help the way they looked. And yes, it took a lot of effort not to glance at the scruff next to me!

“May I ask, why Wales?” Holmes ventured, eyeing me warily for some reason. Our host smiled.

“My father was heartbroken after my mother's death”, he said. “He wanted to leave the United States, but had no idea where to go. My mother's sister, my Aunt Mary, married a Welshman from Pennant, not far from here. Her daughter Branwen still lives there; she had lost her own husband in a fishing disaster, and invited my father to come to the area. He settled in this place, and died last year.”

“So why have you summoned us?” I asked. Our host's face darkened.

“You doubtless saw in your approach how the road in makes a sharp right turn just before this place”, he said. “Although the cottage may look small – and I am sure, given my family name, you must have expected much more – I own all the land around that corner. The county council wishes to build a small housing estate to the left as you approach, which will turn the corner into a T-junction. I have said that I am happy for this, as I will retain the small copse that you saw between me and the new houses.”

“As is the way these days, the council invited local building companies to tender for the new estate”, our host continued. “Two companies made bids in the end; Durham Brothers in the village and Davis and Davis, up in Llanrhaiadr. I could of course have sold the land to either of them – until the troubles began.”

“What troubles?” Holmes asked. 

“Girls in the village started to get attacked”, he said, frowning. “And very oddly, the attacks happen only on Tuesdays, and not every Tuesday. In each case a girl reported that someone – yes, doctor, someone with a disfigured face – attacked the girl in question, and only ran off when she screamed.”

“An attacker who is deterred by a woman's scream”, Holmes said dubiously. “Unusual, if not downright unbelievable.”

He thought for a moment.

“There is someone else in all this”, he said. “Who is it?”

“The doctor undersells your powers”, our host smiled. “Durham Brothers is owned by a Mr. Ivor Durham, and he has only one daughter, Eleanor, who is sole heiress to the company. And it was shortly after we began negotiations for the sale that the attacks started.”

“But surely you could just sell to the other company?” I asked. Mr. Vanderbilt shook his head.

“That is what makes me so suspicious about Miss Durham”, he said. “You see, the Llanrhaiadr firm is run by Mr. Elijah Davis, and he is what they call 'very High Church'. If there is even a smidgen of suspicion about my involvement in these attacks, he will not deal.”

“Allowing Miss Durham's firm to be the sole purchaser, and in a position to therefore offer a lower price”, Holmes said, pressing his long fingers together.

“Can you help me at all?” our host asked urgently.

“The facts of the matter are clear enough”, Holmes said. “But proving it may be another thing entirely. I shall have to wire a friend in London for some help in this matter.”

+~+~+

The front of the cottage, most fortunately, belied its inner spaciousness. There were fair-sized rooms for Holmes and myself, and I decided that I would miss the place when I had to go back – at least, until the telegram arrived. I read it in some surprise.

“Problems?”

One of these days Holmes was going to give me a heart-attack, coming up silently behind me like that. I scowled at him. 

“A message from my friend, Peter Greenwood”, I said, turning back to my telegram. “He says that I am covered for as long as I need to stay away from London.”

“That is good, then.”

His voice was too flat. I stared at him suspiciously, and he smiled shyly.

“I may have made clear to my father that I resented his inferences about your character”, he said, not looking at me. “And that arranging extra cover for you whilst you were helping me on this case would go a very small way towards making up for that.”

I felt absurdly pleased.

“Thank you”, I smiled. “I am really enjoying it out here. It is so peaceful.”

I was to remember those particular words.

+~+~+

The following day, Holmes received a package from London. Annoyingly he would not tell me what was in it, and proposed a walk down through the village, presumably in the hope that it would distract me. I would like to say that I was not so easily gulled, but it would have been a lie.

As I said, Llangynog was a small village and possessed of but a single tavern. I had been in there the day before, and had quickly learnt that the locals had the sort of nosiness of which our dear friend Henriksen would have doubtless approved. When I had said that my friend and I were just visiting the area to take some air, I was greeted with barely concealed incredulity. Two of them had however read my story about the “Gloria Scott”, and said that they had liked it, so at least they showed good taste.

The one thing we discovered that Mr. Vanderbilt had not told us was that Miss Durham was currently seeing a local man, a Mr. Evan Davies, whose sister was one of the girls who had been attacked. Holmes, of course, won the local people over in no time, and he soon singled out Mr. Davies, a rat-faced young man to whom I took an instant dislike. I considered that he might do well to marry Miss Durham, who made a similarly poor impression on me. I know that one cannot expect high fashion from country ladies, but she seemed to be trying for what might be termed 'the manly look', and it ill-suited her. I knew that she was heiress to a business, but she did not have to try to look like a man!

Holmes spent some time talking to young Mr. Davies (it depressed me that, teetering as I was at the wrong end of my third decade of life, I considered such a person 'young') before rejoining me at the bar. He spent some time holding forth on a study he had done into different types of werewolves and ancient spirits, which I thought an odd choice of conversation. But then he was an odd duck at times, even if he was a genius. And he had bought me some time in this most pleasant locale, so I felt warm towards him. 

+~+~+

On Tuesday, I woke to hear a noise outside. Looking out, I saw Mr. Vanderbilt leaving the house, and thought it odd that he turned left along the road rather than right. I knew that there was no easy way round if one wanted to head towards England, as that road led into the mountains. Perhaps he was going to see his sister up in Pennant, but at this time of a morning? 

The morning passed uneventfully; we did not go out as it was one of those on-off drizzly days. The afternoon was a little better but still cold, and I preferred to stay in and read. Holmes said that we would have to make shift to get our own food that day, as the servants would not be coming in for some reason. I thought nothing of that either, and decided to read my book for a while, hoping that there would be no attack that evening.

I was about to suggest that we turn in for the night when Holmes surprised me by saying that he wanted to take a walk into the village. It was drizzling again, if intermittently, and I really did not want to go, but I sensed that there was more to his request that a desire to experience Welsh as opposed to English rain, so I pulled on my coat and followed him. 

I had assumed that we were making for the tavern and a late night drink, but we did not make it. A dark figure loomed up ahead of us as we passed the church, the rain dripping off his uniform.

“Ah, Constable Jones”, Holmes smiled pleasantly, as if he had been expecting a policeman to pop up out of the dark (he probably had, the wiseacre). “May I suggest that we adjourn to your station, as it is much nearer than the cottage?”

The policeman looked at us uncertainly, but Holmes' persuasive abilities apparently worked across Offa's famous Dyke. 

“As you wish, sir”, he said. “I was coming to see your Mr. Vanderbilt.”

Holmes said nothing until we were inside the police station which, fortuitously, was just a few houses down. Once he had removed his coat and sat down, he smiled at the policeman.

“Who was attacked?” he asked bluntly. “Miss Durham?”

The policeman was at once visibly suspicious.

“How might you be knowing that, sir?” he asked warily. “I have only just come from the lady in question.”

“Because I rather expected her to be attacked this rainy evening”, Holmes smiled. 

The policeman stared at him, dumbfounded. Holmes sat back and relaxed.

“Since it is a Tuesday, I had a feeling that someone might try to frame poor Mr. Vanderbilt for a further attack today”, he said. “In the tavern yesterday, I made a point of telling several people that he was planning to sell up and move to the North, and that the whole thing would most likely be accomplished in little more than a fortnight, possibly even a week. And that he had a potential buyer for his cottage, a factory owner from St. Helens who wished to use it as a retirement home, and he would sell him the adjoining land as well.”

The policeman looked perplexed.

“And why would you have done all that, sir?” he asked.

“I wished to force the hand of the person behind the attacks”, Holmes said. “If they thought that the person they were attempting to ruin might evade them, then they would have to strike on what might be the only Tuesday left to them, namely tonight.”

“Miss Durham has been attacked, sir”, the constable admitted. “In the woods, not far from the American gentleman's cottage. I shall have to interview him.”

“It will be a short interview, constable”, Holmes said with a smile. “This morning Mr. Vanderbilt took a carriage to Llynclys, where he caught a train bound for London. He is seeing a doctor friend of mine, and will be spending tonight and tomorrow night at a hotel there.” He handed the policeman a folded piece of paper. “This is the name of that hotel; you are perfectly at liberty to wire them, and to ask if what I have said is true.”

The constable stared at the piece of paper. He must have known that Holmes would not venture such a thing if it could not have been backed up. 

“It seems that he is in the clear then, sir”, he said. “But Miss Durham still says that she was attacked.”

Holmes hesitated.

“I am not a betting man, constable”, he said slowly. “But I would wager a small sum on the following. Once you have told her that Mr. Vanderbilt could not possibly have been her attacker, Miss Durham will decide that she does not wish for the case to be pursued.”

“Sir?”

“And you might do me one small favour, if I might be so bold?”

“Well...”

“If you happen to encounter a 'hairy' gentleman in your travels later tonight, kindly direct him to the cottage”, Holmes grinned.

+~+~+

“Will I need my gun?” I asked anxiously, once we were back at the cottage. He shook his head. 

“In this case you would more likely need a razor!” he said mysteriously. I shook my head in confusion.

Fortunately I did not have long to be annoyed with him, for barely five minutes after our return, there was a loud knocking at the cottage door. Holmes pressed his finger to his lips, then went to open it.

It was Mr. Evan Davies. And he was _covered_ in hair!

+~+~+

“You have to help me, doctor!” he pleaded, staggering into the cottage. “I have....”

“Be silent!” Holmes demanded. The man shook, but obeyed.

“You are here tonight because you did something both deceitful and dishonest”, Holmes said coldly. “Doctor Watson may officially be a doctor of medicine, but he and I share a common interest in, shall we say, some of the more dubious aspects of religion.”

Did we?

“Sirs?”

“If you keep interrupting, I shall not be able to tell you how to get rid of the curse”, Holmes said angrily. “You will stay like this for the rest of your life!”

The man all but collapsed into a chair by the table, whining piteously. I made some notes and kept silent.

“Now”, Holmes said, “I am going to share something with you. In tangling with Mr. Vanderbilt – and that is not his real name, of course – you chose the wrong target. Had you applied at least a modicum of common sense, you would have asked yourself what someone with such an illustrious name was doing up the far end of a Welsh Valley, thousands of miles from the family wealth. Unfortunately for you, you have no sense.”

“Sir!”

“Some time ago Mr. Vanderbilt – I shall not say his real name for fear of invoking the same sort of 'trouble' that you have very evidently brought upon yourself - dabbled in certain preternatural matters that, had he have had any sense, he would have steered well clear of”, Holmes said, sounding bitter. “As I am sure you are aware, the great continent of North America is even now still being opened up, and all sorts of strange, heathen beliefs are being encountered. Most of them are pure mumbo-jumbo, but occasionally there are certain heathen deities that still retain some of their terrifying old powers. Mr. Vanderbilt chose to try to communicate with one of them. His face, and the fact that he subsequently had to leave the country of his birth, tells you all too clearly the result.”

“But I am all....”

“I can easily turn you out in the rain if you keep interrupting”, Holmes said exasperatedly. Our visitor quailed, and managed to pull in on himself even more. Holmes coughed before continuing.

“Unfortunately this particular spirit is easy to summon, but almost impossible to get rid of”, Holmes said. “Their word for it, in the Native Tongue of the Red Indian tribe that lives in the region, is 'Yeggman'. It sounds harmless and, if left alone, usually is. Unfortunately like all gods it has a key interest – and unfortunately for you, that interest is in bringing down justice on those who bear false witness.”

“No! Sirs!”

“You and Miss Durham planned this whole ramp”, Holmes said crossly. “She knew that if Mr. Vanderbilt was linked to the attacks, then her rival company up in Llanrhaiadr would not deal with him, and she could then offer a much lower price for the land, pocketing the difference. Thinking that he was going to sell to someone else and move away, you had to strike tonight, which was why you chose Miss Durham.”

“No!”

“I am sure that the other ladies – including your own sister - who were 'attacked', were in fact paid handsomely for their roles in this ramp”, Holmes glowered. “Even more unfortunately for you, you chose to do the attacks on Tuesdays, when the power of the Yeggman is always at its greatest. Tell me Mr, Davies, how old are you?”

“Sir?”

Holmes tutted at him.

“I do not ask these questions for my health!” he snapped. “Indeed, I ask them for your own. Kindly answer.”

“Twenty-four, sir”, the man managed.

“That is good”, Holmes said. “For all that there is no medical cure for the curse, there is a spiritual one, provided you are not yet thirty years of age. You must immediately go to Constable Jones and confess all, then beg him to allow you to spend the night praying in the church. If you can stay awake in the House of God for full six hours before a sunrise, then the curse itself will be lifted, although its effects will take some days to leave you. And talking of leaving, may I suggest that you do just that.”

The man actually fought with the door to get through it, scrambling out into the rain. And he was gone.

+~+~+

“'The Yeggman'?” I chuckled. “Really?”

“Henriksen told me it once”, he said. “It is a word used by certain members of the criminal classes for a safe-breaker.”

I shook my head at him.

“How did Mr. Davies end up in that state?” I asked.

“Remember that he and I drank together that evening at the pub?” Holmes asked. “The package that I had sent from London was from Doctor Adams, whom we helped out on the Manor House Case. He sent me a solution which, twenty-four hours after imbibing, causes the body to break out in hair. All I had to do was slip it into Mr. Davies' drink.”

“So he did not have to spend all night praying, then?” I asked.

“Good for the soul”, Holmes said shortly. “And everyone in the village will get to see his new look tomorrow. In the meantime, our train back is not until Sunday, so I suggest that we retire, and then spend the next few days enjoying the mountains of Montgomeryshire.”

+~+~+

Enjoy them we did, as the weather was mercifully kind to us. Mr. Vanderbilt returned, and was immensely grateful to Holmes for having cleared his name. We spent several happy days in Llangynog, and I was sorry to leave for the grime and bustle of the city. 

Although his birthmark could not be completely removed, Holmes' doctor friend was able to treat Mr. Vanderbilt and reduce his marking considerably in size and severity. I later learnt that old Mr. Durham, having been shocked by his daughter's complicity in the matter, seemingly did nothing – until he died some years later, and she found to her horror that he had written her out of his will completely. I believe that she decided to emigrate to India, to whom I suppose we owe a small apology. Mr. Evan Davies quitted the Tanat Valley for Cardiff, and in one of those curious little coincidences, he ended up as a yeggman or safe-breaker. I only learnt of this when I read how his final robbery had gone wrong when some explosives had gone off early....

+~+~+

Our next case would lead to a poisoner who was not what they seemed, and a murder over a crossroads deal.


End file.
